


Let's Make Up Our Own Tradition

by fleete



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall, Banshee Lydia Martin, Families of Choice, Gen, Mystery, Pack, Pack Feels, Spooky, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleete/pseuds/fleete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, Lydia finds herself somewhere without any memory of how she got there.  </p><p>For once, she's pretty sure everything's going to be okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Make Up Our Own Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lindseyleewells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindseyleewells/gifts).



> **content notes** : brief feelings of panic and being out-of-control. Takes place post 3a.
> 
> Logannie, I read your requests and whispered, "we are fannish soulmates." :D So yeah. I hope you enjoy it!  
> Thanks to C for your delightful and determined cheerleading/audiencing/beta-ing.

Lydia finds herself in the McCalls’ kitchen. It’s an unexpected location, but for some reason, that doesn’t worry her.

She settles onto the stool furthest from the kitchen windows and lets her tote bag slide off her shoulder onto the other stool. Melissa McCall is peeling potatoes so feverishly that she doesn’t even notice Lydia is there.

“Can I help you with that, Ms. McCall?”

“What? Huh?” Melissa’s head snaps up, frazzled. “Oh. Hi, Lydia.”

“I could peel potatoes?”

“No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.” She smiles a thin smile and gestures at the kitchen. “I think I have it all under control. Trying to get as many dishes made ahead of time as I can, you know.”

Lydia nods and takes in the floury countertop, the dirty dishes, the broken kitchen timer. “How about…I can peel potatoes, and you can take care of that pie.”

“Pie? Oh my god, the pie.” Melissa dives for the oven. “Shit shit shit.”

The pie she deposits on the counter sports only a couple blackened pieces of crust. The filling is bright orange, slightly puffy.

“Pumpkin?”

Melissa shakes her head. “Sweet potato. My mother’s favorite.” She huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “Someday, Lydia, you will have your own place and will have to make Thanksgiving dinner for your mother, and you will look back on this day and empathize.”

The corners of Lydia’s mouth go up. “I don’t know. My mom’s not really into cooking.”

“It’s just. My mother—Scott’s grandmother—is coming tomorrow morning, and I just don’t know how I’m going to explain that I adopted three teenage boys.” She jabs a thumb at the printed chore chart on the refrigerator. Melissa, Scott, Isaac, Ethan, and Aiden are listed down the left side. It’s Isaac’s turn to take out the trash. “I mean, who does that? Adopting three kids? I’ll tell you who. _Two parent households_ do that. Not me. There is literally no explanation for this that she will accept.”

“Short of werewolves, you mean?”

Melissa purses her lips. “Y’know, I think Scott of could actually transform in front of her, and Mom would say, _don’t you make faces at me, maleducado_.”

“She sounds fun.”

“She is.”

Lydia peels several potatoes. The kitchen window looms in the corner of her eye. It makes her heart beat faster, for some reason, but also feel more…settled. This is exactly what she should be doing right now. This potato is the potato she is meant to be peeling. 

“Were you here to see one of the boys, Lydia?”

“Um. Yes.” Probably. That seems logical.

“Well, if you want to stay for dinner tonight, there should be plenty. It’s Aiden’s night, so it’s probably Hamburger Helper.”

“No thanks. I should probably go home soon.”

It’s the night before Thanksgiving after all. She peels one more potato, walks out of the kitchen into the living room, and just as she passes through the doorway, her stomach heaves in a sudden, blinding panic.

_Oh god oh god oh god how did I get here? Nothing good has ever come of you showing up some place with no memory. What if someone’s dead. In the McCall house, oh god, what if it’s—_

But then the fear drops away, as easily and silently as losing an earring, and she remembers that she doesn’t need to worry. Everything’s okay.

Everything’s going to be okay.

*

Lydia finds herself in the front doorway. Scott stands in front of her on the doormat, a frozen turkey cradled under one arm.

“Lydia?”

“Hi!” she says brightly. It pleases her greatly that Scott is here. Her eyes scan the street, the yard, the porch behind him. “You should come inside.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, but he does shuffle obediently over the threshold and closes the door behind him. Something—Lydia couldn’t explain what, exactly, but something—clicks into place that makes her sigh in relief.

“I think so.”

“You think so.” Scott’s eyebrows go down in a V, and his eyes dart up and down her person, checking for injuries.

“Yeah.”

“Did you come over to see Aiden?”

“Nope.” She looks at him, and Scott seems to expect some sort of answer, so she says, “Actually, I’m not sure how I got here, but I think it’s important.”

Scott’s worried frown deepens into a tense line. “Did someone die?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay.” He shifts the turkey to fold beneath his other arm. “But usually, when you end up someplace—.”

“This is different.” Lydia believes it, all the way down to her toes. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she is unequivocally the only person inside her head right now. “Do you believe me?”

Scott takes in her face. “Yeah. I do.”

*

Lydia finds herself in Aiden and Ethan’s room. It used to be an office, of sorts, where Ms. McCall used to keep a desk. It’s not quite big enough for the too extra long twin mattresses lining the walls. One of them has a box spring; the other a minimal bed frame. There’s a lone bookshelf still in the corner, twice as many books piled into it as can easily fit.

About halfway through Lydia’s re-organization of Melissa’s bookshelf, Allison appears in her peripheral vision.

“Hi,” Allison says in a careful voice.

“Hi.”

“How’s it going?”

“Fine.”

Allison nods. “Organizing books?”

“Alphabetical order by the author’s last name.”

Allison nods again, slowly, like Lydia might spook. Normally, this would piss Lydia off, but she’s feeling kind of…righteous right now. She doesn’t feel threatened by Allison’s doubts.

“So here’s the thing, Lydia. Two days ago, you told me something serious was going down, and that I needed to be ready in case something happened. And now you’re here, and you don’t remember how you got here, and you’re acting kind of…weird.”

“Yep.” Lydia shoots her an apologetic look as she places _Mrs. Dalloway_ next to _The Sword in the Stone_. “ I know it’s strange, and yes, I know I’m acting sort of weird, but I’m pretty sure everything’s handled. I think maybe I fixed it. Or that I’m fixing it right now.”

“You’re fixing it. With…what, something magical?”

“Maybe.” When she tries to think too hard about it, the ideas skitter out of her grasp, but the feeling underneath it all remains the same. Serenity. Confidence. Protectiveness. Lydia’s got this.

Allison nods, still concerned. “Okay, well. Do you mind if Stiles and I go to your house, look through the books you were looking at? And the notes you were making?”

“No, you can’t do that,” Lydia says. 

“Because…”

“Because you can’t leave the house. But I think I brought some books in my bag. It’s downstairs.” Nina Martinez goes next to Frank McCourt.

*

Lydia finds herself sitting at Scott’s computer. The only open tab is the Wikipedia page for “banshee.”

“This book is in Gaelic. Seriously, Lydia, where do you even get books in Gaelic?”

Lydia turns around, and Stiles, Allison, and Scott are gathered on Scott’s bed, going through a tall stack of books and papers.

“Oh look, you’re making eye contact again,” Stiles says, but his face isn’t as flippant as his voice.

“I drove to UC Davis,” Lydia tells him.

“So,” Allison says assertively, interrupting whatever retort Stiles was working up to. “These books seem to suggest that you were doing research about fairies. And the Nematon. Do you remember what that was about?”

Lydia tries, for a minute. “No.”

Stiles snatches up a paper and holds it front of her face. “You highlighted this part about possession. Do you think you’re, like, possessed or something?”

“Property is a better translation than possession,” she informs him.

Stiles stares hard at her. “Okay. Next question: how in the hell are you trapping us all here?”

“Hmm.” Lydia turns back to the computer and scans the “banshee” article for the word “Sidhe.” She clicks. “Are all of your parents here?”

“Why yes, Lydia, they are.” Stiles voice is the kind of snide that usually signals that he’s very, very freaked out. “Speaking of which, how did you do that? Like, seriously, my dad showed up thirty minutes ago for no reason at all.”

Lydia blinks a few times, looks over her shoulder from Stiles to Allison to Scott. Something in the straight line of Scott’s shoulders jostles her memory enough to say, “The Nematon belongs to them. The Sidhe.” She pronounces it the way she’d heard in the YouTube video on Gaelic pronunciation, with a slight lilt at the end, and then she decides to head down stairs to the living room. It seems like the thing to do.

*

Lydia finds herself on the couch in the McCall living room. Sean Connery is on the television, and Ms. McCall is elucidating the wonders of early James Bond to Ethan and Isaac. Isaac looks dubious.

“But, like, isn’t Sean Connery dead now?”

Chris Argent, whom Lydia had not noticed until just now, buries his face in his hand on the other side of the couch.

“Oh my god,” Melissa says. “ _No_. No, he is not. Jesus, I feel so old right now.” She catches sight of Lydia’s face. “Oh hi, Lydia. Are you…”

“Hi,” Lydia says.

“SCOTT,” Ethan yells. He shrugs at Lydia’s raised eyebrows. “We were supposed to call them when you went conscious again.”

“I was conscious before.” Or at least, Lydia is pretty sure she’s staying conscious through this whole thing. Her memory is just a little…jumpy.

Scott, Stiles, and Allison come jogging into the room, Aiden emerging right behind them.

“It’s the Sidhe, right?” Stiles says without preamble. “You’re protecting us from them? Because they’re pissed about the Nematon?”

Lydia shrugs.

Stiles makes that noise he makes when he’s choking back vehement frustration. “Are you fucking—”

“Lydia,” Scott interrupts. “Listen we were able to figure it out, for the most part. The Sidhe are angry because Ms. Blake was messing with the Nematon, and they were going to punish her, and then they couldn’t because she was already dead, so they went to find all of the people involved.”

“Which is us,” Allison says. “I mean, basically everyone involved is here in this house, and Derek and Cora are too far away.”

“So you’re _doing_ something, aren’t you?” Stiles pokes her shoulder. “That’s why you’re like this. You’ve figured out some kind of _bean sidhe_ thing to protect us.”

He pronounces it correctly, like banshee but with a rounder vowel and a lilt at the end, and Lydia smiles at him proudly.

Stiles sucks in a breath likes he’s going to start yelling again, but then he looks off into the distance, mulling.

Ethan nudges Scott’s foot. “So, what. Are we going to get attacked tonight, or what?”

“I dunno,” Scott says.

“Not if Lydia’s spell holds,” Allison says. She glances at Stiles. “Right? She must have tried that ritual we found at the end of the blue book.”

“Yeah.” His gaze comes back to Lydia. “Yeah yeah yeah. She must have. Oh my god, that is so cool, you are so going to show me that shit once you come out of this trance, but—”

“What,” Scott says.

“You said all everyone involved is here in this house. And that’s almost true, but Kali and Ennis are dead. I mean, the only people left are Deucalion and—”

“Peter,” Lydia says. She doesn’t feel especially attached to this conversation, feels kind of floaty and happy, but that name slips into her mouth nice and easy.

There’s some silence after that. On-screen, Sean Connery flies away in a jetpack.

“Right. Those in favor of leaving those assholes to death-by-fairy, please say aye.” Stiles raises a palm and answers his own question. “Aye.”

“Aye,” Isaac says.

“This is not something we’re putting to a vote,” Scott says lowly.

Allison touches his arm. “But Scott, what are you even going to do?”

“We’ll just have to go save them.”

Chris sighs. “There isn’t a choice to be made here, Scott. The Sidhe are not the kind of magical creatures that we can fight. They’re barely even corporeal. The only thing standing between all of us and a short death is her, and she says we can’t leave the house.”

He brandishes an arm at Lydia, and everyone turns to stare. She bats her lashes and gives them a winning smile.

“Right, because she’s definitely got it all together,” Isaac says.

Lydia distantly enjoys the way Isaac shrinks back when she turns on him. “I really, really do.”

There’s a distant sound of a toliet flushing, and Sheriff Stilinski appears shortly in the doorway, wiping his hands on his pants. He grimaces as he takes in the room. “Do I even want to know what I missed?”

*

Lydia finds herself sitting on a stool in the McCall kitchen, oddly euphoric. Aiden is removing the turkey from the oven, and the sight of him wearing potholders makes her burst into giggles.

“Oh hey,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “You with us?”

“I…” She shudders, once, feel a bit like she’s coming down from a coffee high. “Wow. Yes, I think I’m…done.”

“With your special fairy protective spell?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” The last three days wash over her in a stilted rush of memories: the ugly moment she figured out what was happening, how scared but mostly pissed she was that the Sidhe were so indiscriminate in their punishments, how desperate she’d been to stop it any way she could.

Aiden is poking at the turkey’s stuffing with a spoon. “Pretty badass,” he says.

“I know.”

That makes him grin. “We told your mom you were staying the night. Since you stayed up all night sitting and staring out the window. She was pretty sad about it, though.”

As soon as he says it, she can feel the exhaustion weigh her down. Her back aches, and her temples pound. “Yeah, I should…go home.” 

“We, uh, invited her to come over for Thanksgiving. If that’s okay.”

That’s very okay, actually. Lydia tries not to let how _very okay_ it is show on her face, because she’s not a gushy person, but she suspects she fails when the corner of Aiden’s mouth goes up.

Scott appears in the doorway before she can respond, startling her. “Done?”

“Done.” She bites her lip. “Did you go save Peter and Deucalion?”

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t get out the front door.”

Lydia is pleased by this, but attempts to maintain a neutral expression. Scott can tell anyway. He sighs, and makes his face do something complicated that Lydia translates as, _I understand your vengeful desires._

“You’ve been up all night,” he says finally. “You should take a nap before dinner.”

Melissa appears over his shoulder. “You can sleep in my bed, sweetie. It’s the only one clean enough to sleep on.”

“Hey!” Aiden says.

There ensues an argument about how often is often enough to wash bedsheets, and Lydia slips through the doorway to the living room. Allison snoozes against her father’s shoulder on the couch, and Stiles and Ethan are so deep in a video game debate that they don’t even notice when Lydia jogs up the stairs.

She’s unfolding the quilt at the foot of Melissa’s bed when Scott knocks on the door frame.

“Lydia?”

 _Don’t be mad at me,_ she wants to tell him. She doesn’t regret what she did, and she’s not sad that Peter and Deucalion probably died last night, but there’s still a tiny part of her that wants to apologize to Scott. Or ask him to forgive her.

“I realized I didn’t say thank you,” he says. “So thank you.”

Lydia frowns, in lieu of letting a tear fall, and Scott seems to understand. He dimples at her.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

*

The next time Lydia wakes up, she finds herself securely wrapped in the blankets of Melissa McCall’s bedroom, her mother is running her fingers through her hair, and there’s a fat slice of sweet potato pie waiting for her.


End file.
